Just a Muscle
by lyssalu
Summary: Miranda had once been told that she didn't have a heart.  Realizing the truth of this statement had come much later, and although it separated her from others, it was something that she could live with - or so she thought.


**A/N**: This is a (really belated) birthday present for one of my favorite people on the internet: ghost.713. Anyway, I'm outing her as being the most fabulous author on this site, so you should definitely check out her stuff. ILU ICCA. This thing kind of grew into a lot more than I initially intended for it to be, and I'm guessing there'll be around 8 chapters.

Yeah.

The pairing is unusual.

Thank you for reading!

* * *

Miranda:**  
****Corona Radiata**

* * *

Shepard and Miranda sat side by side on a metallic staircase, the wide steps numerous and leading down to another section of the human shopping district. Although their position on the stairs had them placed far from the top, the bottom was a long way down and the people bustling about made Miranda feel the vaguest inkling of motion sickness. When she found her eyes drifting down toward the last few steps, her stomach turned.

The railings to either side of the pair were decorated with strings of white and red lights, the bulbs tiny and pointed and dim, layers of them arranged to spiral around the handrails in a cheerful sort of simplicity. There was an ambient noise surrounding them, the low hum of human voices an unexpected sort of comfort. It had been a while since the agent had been surrounded by so many of her own kind, and that she was encountering this on the Citadel only pleased her further.

People walked by in coats, hunched and huddled in groups, and as the commander said something, Miranda found herself mystified by the white, puffing cloud that sprang from his lips with each syllable; that it was cold enough in the district for the little droplets of water from Shepard's breath to condense was…impressive. Miranda rubbed her hands together and appreciated the burning sensation of cold air in her lungs no more than she appreciated having her authority questioned by the convict.

Shepard looked ridiculous – he sat huddled in a green pea coat and jeans, surrounded by the brightly colored bags that he had fanned out around him (this sight made even more absurd by the fact that they had been placed in alternating positions on at least four different elevations), and not for the first time, Miranda wondered why on _Earth_ he had asked her to meet him here. She shifted on the step that was now acting as her seat just as someone rushed by and caught her shoulder with the side of his knee, and instead of glaring at the man as he apologized to her, she directed her gaze at the commander.

In the busy human district, the two of them were quite in the way, despite the very real fact that it was nearly two in the morning, GST. Miranda didn't know why she'd initially found herself surprised over the crowd when she'd first arrived – the time of day (or night, as it were) had never stopped the Citadel from buzzing before. And it wasn't as if it were ever really _dark_ on the Citadel to begin with, though the lighting in this area had been dimmed in order to give the mass of wiring that was strung throughout the little locality more _impact_.

An elbow dug into her side and her mouth pulled as she turned to face Shepard again, a frustrating little smile on his lips. "I'm sorry I kinda made you sit on the outside. _Of course _I wasn't thinking. We can trade spots, if you want."

Miranda actually wanted to move out of the area entirely. Shepard was stupid for thinking that she was going to make an even bigger idiot out of herself by circling around on the staircase, directly in the mass of peoples' pathway as they were traveling up it, just so that they could trade spots. As if it would even make her any more comfortable. She'd actually already suggested that they move – she'd even proposed some place warmer, as well, but for whatever reason, the man was drawn to this spot.

It was strange, yes, and also irritating, but Miranda wasn't yet interested enough in his inner monologue to ask about it; she just felt obligated (to her extreme distaste), a tad grumpy, and _cold_. She'd had to wear a jacket, the inside smooth with genuine cotton, tufts of fur lining the collar as well as the bottom of her sleeves, and it still wasn't enough to warm her frosted skin.

She sighed and rubbed her hands together, giving up and trying once again to prod the commander. "What, and make you move all of your bags? Please, Shepard. I'll _deal_ with it." She tugged on the corner of a jacket sleeve and stretched out a lean leg, locking her fingers around the other knee that remained bent. "Can you at least explain to me why we're here?"

Shepard swallowed audibly and scratched the back of his neck. "Well, as you know Miri, I love Christmas…"

Mm. Christmas. Yes, Christmas was just around the corner. As if the commander's speaking the word had summoned it, Miranda felt a fluttering on her cheeks and then a _wetness_, the sensation of it catching her off-guard; she eyed Shepard first, and then directed her gaze up toward the domed "sky," the neutral expression she'd previously been wearing morphing into a decided frown.

Snowflakes.

Color her impressed.

The artificial environment certainly felt real enough, but it had nothing on Earth. It would never be a _real_ winter – only a cheap imitation. But it made the commander happy, and so she sat with him, her hands dropping to ball into delicate little fists between her thighs. The man had a thing for the traditional human holiday, so she didn't complain; she didn't mind Christmas, herself. It was one example of many that made human culture so fascinating and deserving of preservation.

What surprised her, however, was that human expansion on the Citadel had flourished to such a degree that there'd been an entire district (albeit a tiny one) dedicated to _Christmas_, of all things. She knew the statistics, of course, but being met face-to-face with such a visual representation of the facts was a different thing entirely. It blew her mind that there were enough humans to garner funding toward such a thing; she wasn't complaining, she was just…stunned.

Christmas wasn't even celebrated by over a third of the population, though it was surprisingly more prominent elsewhere than it was on Earth. If she had to venture a guess, she'd say that it was simple nostalgia that made the colonists and other humans who had not quite accepted Earth as home any longer want to celebrate the holiday.

The asari probably had something to do with the little snow globe she and the commander were currently sitting in. She'd heard that there were initiatives going around to promote diversity in order to better life on the Citadel as a whole, so funding had been funneled into making various areas on the space station mimic the culture and life on other planets. It was an interesting idea, but she didn't know that it would actually lead to the betterment of anything.

Then again, it couldn't necessarily _hurt_.

When she glimpsed a turian walking by in a Santa hat, she wasn't sure whether to feel amused or appalled, where in the past, there would have been certainty. She was changing; she could feel it in her bones that she was. Too much had happened for her to not experience a _shift_. Life was shoving her in an entirely different direction than she'd thought that it would, and she wasn't sure whether to appreciate that or not.

She sighed once more and ran a hand through her hair, the movement as precise as it was wistful. "Yes. I'm sure that there isn't a soul on the ship who doesn't know, at this point."

"Right, well…" The commander shifted and the discomfort she was sure he was experiencing was visible on his youthful face. "I got you something."

"Hence the plethora of bags you've got there?" That was…interesting. She pursed her lips in order to stifle the smile that threatened. "Shepard, surely you're aware that we don't have to sit in the middle of a high traffic transit area just so that you can—"

"Well, yeah," he cut her off quickly and ran his hand over the scruff of his 5 o'clock shadow. "But my thought process was that if you don't like it, we can just take it back while we're here…"

Miranda blinked and cleared her throat into a fisted hand.

That was quite possibly the stupidest logic she had ever heard. He could have, _just maybe_, taken her with him so that she could pick out the gift herself, given the fact _that it was a part of his whole plan to show her the gift before Christmas in the first place_.

Good…good _god_.

"You are a _nuisance_."

"But I got you a present."

"Correction: you are a nuisance who got me a present." Miranda moved to grab for a bag and the commander attempted to bat her hand away, at which point the raven-haired agent clutched at his forearm and used the force of her weight in order to tug him forward, this action granting her the few seconds that were needed for her to capture one of the gifts. He murmured a whining complaint, a sound that Miranda neglected to acknowledge; she favored digging through the contents of her prize instead.

"Did you get one for each of the crew? I hate to say it, but that's kind of swee…" She trailed off as the fabric she'd just removed from the flimsy, plastic packaging came into full focus. "What the hell is this_?_"

"That's your present."

"This is lingerie."

The commander cleared his throat, a full blush igniting the pale skin of his face. "…Exactly."

Miranda could count on one hand the amount of times that she had been left speechless in her life. These occurrences were so few and far between because the operative had always had such a keen mind that there was almost _always_ something brewing under the surface, something that she could express with both eloquence and efficiency. She could remember each instance in which she'd actually been tripped up in perfect detail.

One of those times had been because of Jacob, one from Nicket, one from her sister, and _two_ of them had been caused by Shepard, the blonde (personality included), exasperating man she'd known (personally, at least) for under a year.

This wasn't one of those times.

"What the hell were you thinking? You guilt trip me into coming all the way out here to sit in the cold, _in the most inconvenient spot imaginable_, where people are continuously _running me over_, just so that you can show me some lacy two piece that you'd thought I'd like to wear for _Christmas_? I was with my sister, Shepard." She shifted on the step so that she could turn to face him more fully, the intensity of her icy glare enough to cause the commander to look down at his shoes. "You are an idiot. I cannot even grasp the kind of rationale that it would take to even _begin_ to believe that this whole _thing_ would ever be a good idea."

Miranda had more to say, but she held off in the hopes of an explanation. Seconds ticked by, and all that she had to show for them were a few minute shuffles of Shepard's feet and the repeated, slight clearing of his throat. She couldn't hear it because of the noise around them, but she could see his Adam's apple bobbing each time he did it.

"Well." He started and then lapsed back into silence for a moment, his hands on his knees, and infuriatingly, he began to twiddle his thumbs. "I got Thane a heat lamp…do you think I should take that back, too?"

"You have _got_ to be _kidding me_, Shepard."

"I am. It's actually an electric blanket. I think he'd appreciate that, but do you?"

"Do not change the subject. _Explain this_," she tossed the thong at his face and he caught it by a narrow margin, his cheeks still heated from profuse embarrassment.

"I got some crappy advice, okay?"

"From who?" She didn't feel sorry for him. She _wouldn't_ feel sorry for him.

"Some store owner. It doesn't matter. Listen, if you really don't like the lingerie, we can take it back. I just thought…" He sighed and ran a hand through short hair. "Can I ask you something?"

"If I said no, it wouldn't stop you."

"Try me."

"No."

"Miri."

"Fine."

"How do you…Um, me and Jack have been having…_problems_." Miranda stared at him blankly, and he continued after he pulled out a tube of Chap Stick from his jean pocket and applied a liberal amount to his lips. "So I've been trying to think of things that I can do to, I dunno, make her not mad at me, and I thought, hey, Christmas, I can get her a present. So I found a store and I talked to this guy and he said that women really enjoy lingerie and that Jack would start talking to me again if I invested in a pair and I just thought, hey, might as well get some for Miri and everyone, so…Tali can wear hers over her suit, right? Anyway—"

"Who was this shop keeper? This advice is absurd."

"Some salarian – you know how I am about remembering weird names. Anyway—"

"You took advice on romantic relationships from a _salarian_?"

"I know." He put his face in his hands and huffed. "I'm desperate."

She felt a little twist in her stomach and she swallowed before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Oh, _god dammit all_ – she felt sorry for him. No, she _pitied_ him.

"Shepard, as much as I _don't_ care about this, why is she upset with you?"

With his face still in his hands, "I don't wanna say."

She wasn't going to pry it out of him; she really didn't care to know in the first place. "At least show me what you got her."

Shepard clutched at one of the bags, this one red and shiny, and timidly removed its contents.

Miranda stared in awed silence, her brows pinching together in confusion.

Another thing that didn't happen often for her was confusion.

"That's a banana hammock."

"Yes."

"You got Jack a banana hammock?"

"No."

"Why did you show me a banana hammock instead of Jack's gift?"

"The banana hammock is Jack's gift."

"Then you got her a banana hammock, Shepard."

"No, I got a banana hammock for me so that she could look at me wearing it."

For as much dignity as the woman had, had she been drinking, eating, or otherwise consuming something in that moment, she would have promptly spit it out. Miranda had just made a sound she'd never made before – it was broken and imperfect. It was a startled guffaw-laugh-chortle. A guffaughrtle. She might have been a little embarrassed over the noise if she didn't believe that the commander had much more cause to be experiencing the feeling himself.

"I take it that this is more of that salarian advice?"

The man hid his eyes behind a palm and groaned. "Yes. His thought process was like, well, if she's pissed at you for…'so and so', and you bought these, you'd be leveling with her – putting yourself on the line, while also committing to something more…uh, I dunno. I dunno. Why did I listen to him?"

"Tell me why she's angry with you." Miranda had things to say about Jack, but she had long since learned not to express these things openly. Or at least not in front of the commander. She had grown to respect the man and, albeit begrudgingly, felt that she owed him more than that. "This doesn't make sense unless you tell me."

There was a short silence as the man appeared to collect himself. He clasped and unclasped his hands in front of himself, his elbows on his knees, and he chewed at his lower lip. He furrowed his eyebrows and, finally, shrugged. "I haven't had sex with her yet."

"Oh."

"Yeah. And I guess she feels insecure about it, so she hates me. But it's…a me thing. It's not about Jack – or, well, it is, but it's not Jack's fault, do you know what I'm saying?"

"Yes." No, she didn't.

There was silence for a long time then. It wasn't that Miranda didn't know what to say, it was just that she didn't feel the need to say anything. The quiet was comfortable and didn't feel empty, and she felt content to merely sit and listen to the crowd as they drifted through the human shopping district clutching bags not much different from Shepard's own.

The silence was broken by something unexpected.

"I know you think I'm stupid, but there's a reason I chose to sit here." He looked her in the eye and she met his gaze, her attention fully captured. "I've only had sex with one person, and yeah, it's surprising given my history, but it didn't happen until after I'd enlisted. I met her here on the Citadel in some bar, we hit it off, and we saw each other for a couple of years, though mostly it was long distance.

"Shore leave for Christmas one year, she said she had really urgent news, and she'd worked in this area, so we met here. We were just walking and she blurted out, 'I'm pregnant.' She didn't want to keep it. That didn't sit right with me, so I asked her to marry me. We'd been right here, on _exactly_ this step, and she said she had to go, but she'd think on it. I never saw her again."

Miranda put a hand on his shoulder and he ducked his head, a hand moving in front of his face so that he could scratch his forehead. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah. It doesn't really matter now, though. I just don't like being alone this time of year, so thank you for sitting here with me."

"With all due respect, you never like being alone."

He grinned. "Thank you, regardless."

"You're welcome."

The commander leaned into a stiff stretch and grunted as Miranda crossed her legs. What he'd confessed was a lot to take in, but somehow that this had happened to him didn't surprise her. The man wore his damn heart on a sleeve. If what he'd said was meant to be some sort of admission or explanation of why he was apparently more careful with relationships now, Miranda felt that it'd crush her to know the person he'd been before it.

"Hey Lawson, can you stop being mad at me now?"

"Yes."

"Good. For a second there, I felt tears…"

Miranda narrowed her eyes and scowled at the man.

"What?" He blinked and rubbed his nose before sniffing, and then his eyes widened. "_Oh_. I wasn't even being sarcastic, though!"

"Mm, of course not."

As the quiet resumed, Miranda suddenly felt…soft. She'd already accepted that this man had changed her, but she was always discovering that he had done so to a deeper degree than she had previously thought. A stray lash tickled at her cheek and she brushed it away, the small, individual hair sticking to the tip of her finger. She blew on it, not bothering to track its movement through the air after she had done so.

The crew was doing it too, of course – changing her. She'd never served with finer _people_, which some of them…_weren't_. Not really, or at least not in the purest sense of the word. But they were good, nonetheless. They were worthy. More, she'd even grown to _like_ some of them, Grunt in particular standing out in her mind. While he was young, unruly, and uncultured, Grunt was still the one out of all of them that she could relate to.

The young krogan had asked her once if it were true that she had also been tank bred; she had said yes. Yes. Bred to perfection as an experiment – it was very true that both of them had been. Miranda would never be able to shake the memory of the krogan laughing, insisting with maniacal exuberance that their battle master was lucky to have two different warriors who were _pure_ in his krantt. Miranda and grunt were pure human, pure krogan – pure _perfection_.

It was true.

Miranda had known for as long as she could remember that she was perfect. Because of the commander, she had come to realize that this sense of perfection was not something that was applicable in the general sense of the word – it was more like, Miranda was the perfect human, meaning that she was as flawed as all of the rest of them, because no matter how hard Miranda had tried to fight the acceptance of this simple little truth, _humanity_ was very deeply flawed.

"Can I tell you something, Miri?"

"Shoot."

"A month ago, after we took down the Shadow Broker, Liara dug up some files and showed them to me. There was a dossier about you. I know…about your complications."

The operative was very deeply flawed.

Perfect: Miranda had always been so _consumed_ by that word – she was the perfect woman. Longer lifespan, increased intelligence, capabilities, perfect body, perfect everything that a woman should be, except for the one function that, as human beings, women were _meant _for. She and Shepard were both beacons of humanity – they were the ideal human beings, and yet they had faults. Flaws. Humanity was imperfect, and she was the perfect embodiment of humanity. Miranda Lawson was imperfection perfected.

Miranda Lawson could not give birth.

That was the ultimate joke, of course. The perfect human could not do the one thing that normal humans did: ensure the continuation of their species. And _that_ was why Miranda fought for humanity. If she could not contribute to the prolongation of the race in the biological sense, she would at least _protect it_. She would protect humanity's interests, because that was her duty as a _being_.

"Well, I can't really say that I'm not upset over the invasion of my privacy, but I also can't say that I wouldn't have done the same were our positions reversed."

It was now Shepard's turn to reach out, his hand rubbing in slow circles on her back. The contact irritated her more than it soothed her, but she understood that his intentions were good. No one knew about her inability to become pregnant except for Jacob, and now Shepard. She was okay with this, in the end, because it made sense that this man should know.

Cerberus had been her life, and he had been the one to turn her against the organization. She no longer needed their protection. Miranda knew why she fought for humanity; she knew why human life was essential. And it had been a slow process, but she'd eventually come to the realization that it wasn't just humanity that was in need of a guardian.

A lifetime of being subjected to the rhetoric of the superiority of her species had been a difficult thing to break, and though she still valued her race over others, she did not think that the ones _not_ of her kind were unworthy. She was learning. Leaving Cerberus had been the least flawed decision Miranda Lawson had ever made.

"Oh, there was something else I meant to mention. It's kinda important."

"Yes?"

"Pardon me for saying this, but you know how I'm stuck doing bitch work for the council for, basically, here on out?"

"Yes…"

"Well, they've got some bitch work lined up for me. Urgent stuff. I've gotta cut this visit short and pay the Broker a visit, so instead of being here for another week, you've got three more days."

She nodded in understanding and the commander stood to collect his bags, offering Miranda a hand after he'd managed to hook all of them around one arm. He continued speaking to her, but she neglected to listen. She couldn't listen, really. She was too disappointed.

Oriana would be sad, but there was nothing that could be done. Miranda had a job to do – Miranda _always_ had a job to do. It was formulaic; it was _clockwork_. For the first time, the idea of this made her feel…unhappy. It was an emotion that signaled to the operative just how much she'd changed, and she craved something in her life that at least reflected that change.

This was not something that she could easily give voice to or even put into words in her own mind, but it was there, a continuous and teasing presence. She was different, and so the tasks that had been the norm for her no longer made her whole. She wanted more. She _needed_ more. She just didn't know what that "more" was.

To be more accurate, Miranda Lawson didn't know what she needed at all; she just knew that she needed _something else_.


End file.
